


anything

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Play, Consensual Non-Consent, Crying, Edgeplay, Fear Play, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: Sometimes John likes to struggle. To be scared. And maybe he's such a good actor, most wouldn't be entirely comfortable with it. Tim never bats an eye.or, the one where john gets acquainted with tim's sig sauer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i forget what fic it was that i made this joke in the authors notes before, but once again, here i am, gesturing to a dumpster and welcoming MTV to my crib.
> 
> the last john/tim fic was so soft i had to make up for it by doing a very hard fic. here she is.
> 
> i've been meaning to write a gun play fic for awhile because, y'know, if you follow tim on instagram you know he builds and collects guns. idk if he owns a sig sauer but i think they're fuckin hot so... he owns one in this fic. i have a huge weapon kink and i wanna be left alone to die.
> 
> lemme reiterate the consensual non-consent tag: this is 100% consensual, but there's consent play going on here, ie john is pretending he doesn't want it. if that's gonna trigger you this is not the fic for you. i have many others that will be more your speed. also there's inappropriate usage of a firearm in here. if guns are triggering, this is also not the fic for you. like, this is one of those "dead dove: do not eat" kinda fics. "exactly what it says on the tin", etc.
> 
> idk dude. we've established i'm an awful person. just enjoy the fucking sick porn and let me live my life.
> 
> the title is from the skold song, which i affectionately refer to as "the hell song"

John's a better actor than he lets on.

When Tim gets into headspace, it's difficult to resist him. But John never did turn down a challenge.

Perhaps the convincing part, at least when they're pretending, is that Tim brings one of his real life guns along for the ride.

John loves the feel of it. The flash of danger at cold metal on hot skin. Mechanical click of the hammer. Tim would disassemble it in front of John beforehand, prove to him it wasn't loaded.

John wishes he wouldn't.

_Tim, just once, I want you to leave the clip in. Take the safety off. Force it into my mouth, make me suck it like it's your cock. Could cum just thinking about it. Fuck me open with a loaded pistol._

But that wasn't the sort of thing you could say. Too heavy, too much.

Tim, ever so accommodating. He would throw John onto the bed carelessly, climb onto him. Force his mouth open, shove the gun between his teeth, weigh him down and make him do it. Never stopping unless he heard a safe word, or the right motion of John's hands. Which was sort of the beauty of it – Tim could be as cruel as he wants, as nasty as he wants, and John could lose himself in his role, fighting it, spitting insults, and Tim would never stop. Not a single hesitation.

Sometimes John likes to struggle. To be scared. And maybe he's such a good actor, most wouldn't be entirely comfortable with it. Tim never bats an eye.

//

It's a Saturday afternoon. They're playing hostage. John's blindfolded, wrists cuffed with the chain looped around the dining room table's leg, clothes torn and stripped away from him, exposing as much as possible. Tim, the sadistic interrogator, has been alternating shoving his cock and the barrel of his Sig Sauer in John's mouth. John's enjoying guessing which it's going to be. Not that he's showing it. Drool runs down his chin, his erection giving him away, but John doesn't give himself up yet.

John hears Tim's boots on the hardwood floor, moving closer to him. John pulls at the cuffs again, tries to jerk away when Tim grabs his jaw.

“I'm gonna ask again,” Tim says from in front of him, voice in that low, threatening growl. “Are you ready to talk.”

John spits in the direction of Tim's voice. “Fuck you,” he says. Tim shoves the Sig back into John's mouth, grabs John by the hair.

“I swear to god,” Tim says, “I will splatter your pretty fucking brains on this wall. I will unload this clip into you and burn your body and nobody will miss you because you're nothing but a _whore_.”

John tries to speak around the gun, so Tim pulls it out, spit stringing from John's lips to the barrel. “I fucking dare you,” John growls. Tim sighs and John hears him stand, walk away. Behind the blindfold, John listens. The sound of cardboard packaging, metal clicking against itself. Bullets. The sound of the clip coming out, then ammunition being dropped into place. Clip being locked back in. Tim's boots moving back over to him.

“Do you think I'm joking?” Tim asks. Then there's the sound of the hammer cocking, and the icy metal against John's forehead. The _loaded gun_ against John's forehead. John's facade cracks. He says nothing, the wave of fear and arousal crashing through him. His mouth falls open helplessly, and two fingers shove into it, trapping his tongue, making him gag. For a split second, John thinks he could cum. Jesus. How did he _know_? Tim lowers the gun, slaps John hard across the face, making him start. “Answer me,” Tim says, and John stutters.

“I'll do anything,” John chokes out, and the gun leaves his head, hears the hammer cock back and hears Tim stuff it in his waistband. Tim's reaching behind him, undoes one of his cuffs, lets him out but keeps his hand around John's free wrist. John doesn't even fight him, just lets Tim pull him to his feet and strip the rest of the clothes off him. John's legs shake underneath him.

“Go,” Tim says, and nudges him in the direction of their bedroom. John stumbles his way across the house – in any other situation he's confident he knows the floor plan well enough to get there blindly, but Tim keeps jabbing him in the back with his Sig and it's awfully distracting. His brain seems to have forgotten anything other than _gun, Tim, good._

Eventually, John gets shoved over onto their bed. Tim wrestles the free cuff back onto John's wrist, binding them behind him.

“Turn over,” Tim orders, and John can feel the firing line of the gun on him. He fumbles his way back over and there's the sound of a drawer opening, the feel of the mattress shifting and sagging under Tim's weight as he climbs onto it. Tim uses the barrel of the gun to shove John's legs apart, and John spreads them quickly, because quite frankly, the scene usually fell apart around now anyway, John too eager to fake not wanting it any longer. A slick finger presses into him and John shudders as Tim gives him the first knuckle, then the second. He works his finger, searching, more a charade than anything – Tim knew John's body even better than John. Then, Tim slides a second finger in, curling together inside him, and John moans, writhing and pulling at the cuffs.

“Shit,” John gasps out, throat raw. Tim shoves a third finger in and starts working him open in earnest, and John thinks he might actually melt into the mattress. He groans again, hearing the crinkle of a condom getting torn open, and John whines. It pulls him out of his head for a split second as he wonders why exactly Tim needs a condom when they've been fluid bonded for ages, but he's distracted by Tim's fingers. “Oh, fuck, _Tim._ ”

“What's that, babe? You want something?” Tim remarks. John huffs, wishing he could see the smirk on Tim's face. But he can hear it.

“Fuck me,” John growls, frustrated.

“I will,” Tim says. The bed shifts again and Tim's pulling the blindfold up and off John's head, John's pupils blowing wide the second he sees him. John's head lifts as if to kiss Tim, but he doesn't, just tries to stifle a moan.

Tim smiles, fingers still working, and reaches for something.

The gun. Oh fucking hell, that fucking gun. That very loaded gun. John keeps his eyes on Tim's as he trails it down John's body, from the pulse at his neck, traces the tattoos on his chest and moves it down his stomach. The metal brushes against the head of John's cock and John almost loses it right there, but Tim keeps moving it down between his thighs. And then Tim slides his fingers out.

“Fuck,” John whines, bucking up at nothing. But then Tim picks the condom up and places it over the muzzle of the gun and unrolls black latex down over the barrel. Oh. “Oh,” John says. Tim just slicks it over with more lube, and neither of them speak as Tim presses it against John's ass. John can't watch, but he can't look away. Every nerve in his body is raw, all the sensation condensed to that one point of contact, the thin layer of latex separating metal from skin.

Tim pushes. John's body gives. He feels himself stretch, and then it's inside him. The loaded gun is inside him.

All he can do is shudder. He's cornered prey. His head races, a thousand what ifs, where the bullet would go if Tim pulled the trigger. Right up through his guts. Maybe he'd die instantly if it hit his heart. Maybe it'd puncture a lung and he'd suffocate.

John lets himself sink into it, drowning in it.

Tim starts moving the gun, shallow little strokes, not unlike a dildo. A metal one, the wrong shape, stretching him in all the wrong ways, but it doesn't matter. John's blood rushes, skin hot, body slicked in a sheen of sweat, heart pounding in his throat. The muzzle of the gun presses into that sweet spot and John moans, pushing into it.

“Right there,” John whispers, barely making words. He feels on the edge of tears, a sob choking him.

Tim smiles, adjusts the angle, fucks him with the Sig like he'd fucked him with his fingers, methodical and steady, right into that spot. The sob bursts out of John's throat, moaning, begging, feeling his tears run. Tim keeps the same pace, the fire burning in John's guts, threatening to consume him. He teeters on the edge of his orgasm, just needing a nudge, one little touch of his cock. John dicks up at the air, body begging for friction.

“Please,” John pants out, another sob wracking him, an inch from free fall. He can't take it. He can't. He feels himself clamping down on the gun, painful, but so good. He shakes.

“That's it,” Tim murmurs, voice soft somehow. “Cum for me.”

John's entire body arches, cock spilling cum across his stomach as his orgasm overtakes him, sends him spiraling. He cries out, aching, overwhelmed, wave after wave hitting him, the pistol fucking him open, riding it out.

His head rushes, then nothing.

John doesn't even notice when Tim pulls the gun out. He doesn't notice him unlock the handcuffs until he's grabbing at Tim's hair, pulling him in as Tim ruts his cock against John's stomach. Tim moans, shudders, then goes still. Adds his own mess to John's skin.

John suddenly feels very sticky.

“Hey,” Tim's voice says. “You alright?”

“Never better,” John says softly, voice raw. “How... how'd you know?”

“Hm?” Tim asks. “Oh. You thought it was loaded.” Tim snorts a laugh. John blinks, suddenly very awake.

“It wasn't?” he asks.

“Nope,” Tim says. He props himself up on an elbow. “The one I filled with blanks is in the living room still. That's just another one of the same model.” He gestures at the gun on the edge of the bed, condom still stretched over it. Tim looks pleased with himself.

“You fucker,” John says. “I was _blindfolded_.”

“I filed down the sight too, babe,” Tim says. “You didn't notice that either. Apparently even you, with all your attention to detail, get thrown off when you're aroused.”

“Shut up. You're ruining the moment.”

Tim sighs, kisses John, and pulls him in. John sulks for a moment, but eventually lets Tim gather him in his arms. John waits for Tim's breathing to go slow, even.

“Thank you,” John whispers, once he's certain Tim's asleep.

“You're welcome,” Tim murmurs back. He squeezes John. John just hums, afternoon sunlight leaking in around the curtains.


End file.
